Chapter 8
As Malus emerged from the ruins he was greeted by a light snow that was progressively getting heavier. Most would find it beautiful, watching the little white flakes dance their way to the ground, but to Malus and other Urchins it was just slow death. Something that slowly smothered you, stealing all sensation replacing it with a burning hell before finally draining your strength and life away. Malus would never forget, mostly due to how his lungs always burned in the cold. A painful and almost eternal reminder of when he almost died in the Grey Quarter. But it made him sharp, always aware of his surroundings, in Northern Skyrim Malus could never relax. But now, with all the wounds he sustained from Kaisar, Malus was like a drunk. His normal hyper aware and paranoid nature giving way to just mindlessly pushing forward. The farther he walked the heavier his equipment, and especially the crown felt like it weighted fifty times heavier. His breathing was in tight, ragged bursts. Malus was constantly fighting the urge to cough. His footsteps were heavy and burned with fatigue, but if he could reach Zevra all would be well. He limped holding his left side, climbing the slippery slopes as fast as he could. As he came to the clearing that surrounded the ruins, Malus began to yell out for Zevra. He was soon on his hands and knees gasping, but he kept trying to call to his horse.
Dammit Zevra, Malus cursed looking for his horse. No apples for you. He began to wander towards the treeline, trying to stay out of the open. He soon stopped yelling, because all he could hear was his breathing and his heartbeat. His breathing was like his walking gait, uneven and ragged. He hadn't even the strength to lift the crown, it held his left arm straight down. Funnily enough since the head had fallen out of the crown when he exited the ruins of Korvanjund, the crown was actually much lighter than when he started carrying it. His wounds and fatigue were the real burden slowing Malus right now. Malus was getting worried. Zevra was much to well trained to have aimlessly wandered off. As he reached the treeline, he let out a sigh of frustration. Suddenly, he was thrown against a tree to his right. Searing pain ripped through his whole body as his vision swam. He looked towards his left shoulder and was greeted by the feathered shaft of an arrow. No, Malus realized with horror. A crossbow bolt perfectly wedged between his shoulder guard and breastplate. He only knew a few individuals who use such a weapon, but only a handful who would even fire at him. With a scream, Malus ripped the shorter missile out of his shoulder. It wasn't barbed and came out without additional damage to his shoulder. But the real damage was done to Malus' psyche. It crept throughout his mind, dread. Purest form of fear, and it made his mind play tricks on him. Staring at the bolt, for just a second Malus thought he saw his name carved into the shaft. With a start, Malus dropped the bolt and tried to heal himself. He started feeling the warmth of the spell, but just as quickly the spell fizzled out. Malus looked at the bolt and saw it had a blueish tint that looked like someone spilled some paint on the tip. Poison, Malus cursed. Not him, it can't be. His magicka reserves were empty, and his mind consumed with fear Malus did the only thing he could think of. He ran.
He was so tired as he fled through the forest, towards the main road. The thought was if Malus could find a guard or Stormcloak patrol he would be safe from Him long enough to properly prepare. His limbs were made of lead, but fear drove him onward. Spurring him to pass his limits because he didn't want to die, and that he had to survive. Primal fear pushed him deeper and deeper into the wilderness. Can't let him catch me, Malus thought over and over as he ran. But soon his body could take no more and collapsed. He tried to keep going, but his breathing was just wheezing and coughing. He couldn't stand and Malus realized he just ran deeper into the forest. He couldn't see anything, but the trees and falling snow. He was trying to crawl, but he was just clawing at the ground. The snow began to cover Malus, and he felt the numbness of his childhood returning. But suddenly he remembered, he hadn't been like this in so long but he remembered. He began to tap into his Ancestor's Wrath. Flames began to emanate from his body melting and evaporating the snow while warming him. It would buy enough time to recover some energy, physical and magical. His thoughts turned to the crossbow bolt and Zevra's disappearance.
“By the nine,” Malus groaned out as his breath slowly came back at healthy intervals. “He can't be back... Has to be someone else...”
Malus snapped back to reality as he heard footsteps crunching into the snow behind him. Heavy, and as Malus listened he recognized that sound the armor was making. He knew it was an Imperial, in heavy armor. Malus felt his ribs scream in pain as he rolled over to face this newcomer. To his relief he was some Breton, and though he was in Imperial armor Malus wasn't scared. He had hair that looked like he spent more time taking care of it than brides on their wedding day. It wasn't Him but it was still a problem. If Malus wasn't busy being relieved he would have noticed this man didn't carry a crossbow. Malus began to heal himself, even though the man asked him to stop Malus just smiled and kept healing himself. Malus only stopped when he heard a voice come from behind this new Legionnaire. It wasn't threatening, necessarily, but even though it was soft yet deep it sent a shiver down Malus' spine. Just like the stories, Malus shivered his mind filled with fear so strong it almost paralyzed him into a shaking fit.
“Let him heal... I think we need him alive...”